


Cloud Burster

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: porthos and treville vignettes in a universe [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Rain, Romantic Rain Storm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 19:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Porthos wants to be romantic. Treville is kind of uninterested. It rains.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> The title TOTALLY doesn't come from me misreading 'Claud Butler' on a bike as 'cloud burster'. Totally. I can read. Totes. shut up . Cloud burster is a much better name anyway.   
> For Canadiangarrison who wanted paintballing but agreed to settle for rain.

Porthos is adamant that they need to do romantic things. He realises, about a month in, that their time is limited. Treville hasn’t been given a commission and is currently mostly on down time, but Porthos is sort of right. At some point in the future he’ll be commissioned somewhere. It might be in the UK, or Germany, or somewhere closer. Training is something he’s got the history and qualifications for. There are also jobs in recruitment centres, though when Treville mentions this, sprawled out in Porthos’s bed and half asleep, Porthos gives him the kind of look that suggests Porthos might have some feelings about recruitment. Treville isn’t against being swept off to restaurants and the theatre and the planetarium, as such. Porthos’s enthusiasm is enjoyable and catching, and makes him very sweet. However, Treville tries to draw the line at a picnic. Which, somehow, leads to him trekking up a hill with a backpack and hiking boots, Porthos huffing cheerfully at his side. 

“This is like work,” Treville says, not even slightly out of breath even as the incline steepens. “This is basically training.”

“Shut up,” Porthos says. “It’s romantic. Look, pretty… grass. And stuff. Nature.”

“You should come running with me,” Treville says, taking in how breathless Porthos is. 

Porthos stops and makes Treville admire the view while he gets his breath, then gives him a lecture about not trying to get everyone as fit as ‘a fucking ripped Army commander’. Treville tries to argue his point as an LtC, but Porthos just sings loudly to drown him out. They walk for half an hour, at which point Porthos gets cross with the grass (it’s making his eyes itch), the flowers (they aren’t pretty enough), and nature in general. He kicks an empty crisp packet and sits down on a grassy bit in a big slump of heavy disappointment. Treville watches him, trying not to laugh. He ends up beaming stupidly as he takes in Porthos’s shoulders and chest, the muscles denying his earlier assertion that he’s a sack of potatoes (willingly and actively so). He hasn’t even taken off his rucksack, and it’s pushing his coat hood up into his curls, and he’s got a camera resting on the puff of his coat above the buckle of his bag. 

“You’re like a whole landscape,” Treville says, standing back to admire the view better. Porthos looks up. 

“What? Are you calling me fat?” Porthos asks. He doesn’t sound offended by the idea. 

“No,” Treville says. “I’m calling you wonderful.”

“Oh,” Porthos says, smiling again, ducking to hide his pleasure. 

“So, this picnic. Are we having it here? There’s a nice view,” Treville says. 

“I’m not being your view,” Porthos says, undoing the straps of his bag. 

“The countryside, you prat,” Treville says, gesturing behind himself without looking. “It’s nice up here, and it’s sheltered by the fuck off big rock you’re sat near.”

Porthos throws his gloves at Treville, and struggles out of his bag, kneeling to unpack a blanket and start laying things on it. He tugs Treville’s bag over when he takes it off, too, and gets out two flasks and a big lunchbox. There’s soup, salad, sandwiches, a bottle of wine, lots and lots of cheese, fruit. Treville sits and stretches out his legs, watching Porthos fussing over how things are laid out. Porthos takes a few photos before letting Treville eat. They sit against the rock, shoulder to shoulder. It’s too cold to be very romantic, but the view is amazing. They’re high up, and the fields and hills are spread below them in green and brown patchwork, broken by the greys of rocks, the sky. The sun comes through the cloud and casts gold light over bits of the picture sometimes. Porthos is warm against Treville, too, and though he’s quiet he’s happy. Treville can tell by the feel of his breathing, the relaxed muscle, the warmth of the occasional comment, the way he reaches now and then to touch Treville. 

“Thank you,” Treville says. “For bringing me up here. Not for being daft about romantic shite.”

“You’re daft,” Porthos says, idly putting most of the food away. He pours them coffee and more soup, to warm up after sitting still. 

They’re still sat there quietly when the sky suddenly breaks open, the grey darkening as clouds scud over, suddenly pissing it down with rain. Treville laughs, looking around at their picnic blanket, the wine neither of them wanted enough to open, the romantic flower Porthos plucked up, the debris of their lunch, all getting soaked. Porthos moans and starts rushing to pack things away. Treville’s laughing too hard to help so he catches hold of Porthos, tugging him into a cuddle, both of them falling against the rock and the blanket. Treville laughs into Porthos’s hair, wet and thick against his cheek, his coat wet, his trousers wetter. He’s soggy and chilled in Treville’s arms but there’s never been anything better. Treville stops laughing and sits up, wrapping around Porthos, pressing kisses to his wet skin, his neck, his cheek. 

“It’s raining,” Porthos says miserably. 

“It’s perfect,” Treville says, and laughs again, holding helplessly onto Porthos. 

“Was meant to be romantic,” Porthos says, snuffling. 

“Porthos, don’t be absurd. This is the funniest, sweetest, oddest date I’ve ever been on,” Treville says. “Come on, let’s get up and walk back so I can get you naked and do fun things to warm up.”

Porthos gets to his feet and plucks the sodden blanket off the ground, and Treville finds himself laughing again. He manages to get a plastic bag to put the blanket in though. Porthos smiles at him, bemused and warm. Treville packs things up and zips Porthos’s coat right to the top, pulling the hood up, kissing his wet lips. Porthos links their arms, as they start back toward the car. They walk side by side, brisk, Porthos falling back into army training and keeping step, keeping up the pace. They fall into a kind of march, and Treville starts a call, which makes Porthos laugh almost hysterically. 

“I don’t know what you’ve been told, army twats are queer and old,” Porthos manages, breaking out laughing again. Treville calls it back obediently, and Porthos has to stop, clinging to Treville to keep upright, he’s laughing so hard. 

They’re soaked by now, even with the coats and hiking boots. When they set off again, the rain beating harder to the earth, Porthos takes a great deep breath and leaning closer to Treville, breaking them from a march to a walk, letting go his arm so they can hold hands. They walk down a little, then up an incline, around the side of the hill. The rain around them shrouds them from the world and it’s just them, the path, the mud. Treville can hear Porthos breathing, can feel him close. He’s so wet, and he’s cold, and he’s uncomfortable, and things are starting to chafe, and he wishes Porthos had let him wear his army boots instead of the hiking boots because they’re starting to rub. But, somehow, it’s not terrible. The grey world is beautiful- from here the landscape has become veils of grey, layers of rain water changing the light and patterning around them. 

“Romantic afterall,” Trevile mutters, a little annoyed. 

“Mm?” Porthos asks. 

“Nothing.”

“I was thinking about taking off your trousers,” Porthos says. “I like doing that. Your hips and stomach muscles and all against the lines of the clothes, and then I can get you out. Like unwrapping chocolate.”

Treville laughs and quickens the pace, a burst of heat warming him a little and giving him extra energy. Porthos sniggers and ups the pace, and Treville takes the challenge. They run the last stretch to the car, a helter-skleter of mud and water, bursting through the vertical rain. Treville chases Porthos’s broad back, his laughter, not worried that Porthos is beating him. In a sprint Porthos always has and probably always will. He’s quick, despite his size. As they careen into the car park, the rain lets up a bit and sun comes crashing out of the clouds, suddenly lighting Porthos up against the damp air, against the patches of flowers, against the surrounding landscape. Treville stops, breath sharp at the beauty of it, catching at his chest and heart with the longing to just remember this, to stay here, to have this moment forever. Then Porthos turns and makes a ‘hurry up’ gesture. 

“I’m wet and cold. Car,” Porthos says, grabbing Treville’s elbow and tugging. 

Treville stumbles, not expecting it, and falls against Porthos. He reaches up to hold Porthos’s face in a cradle of his palms, to kiss him, to remember his face and the taste of him and the warmth against the rain. Porthos is happy here, now, like this, the sun still making him bright. Treville will hold it, whatever happens between them in the future.


End file.
